


Nothing For It

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Body Image, Community: hc_bingo, Community: spnkink_meme, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Exact Numbers, Food Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Triggers, weight loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha's taking it too far—he knows he is—but there's no way he can stop yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing For It

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, first and foremost, for [this prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/59871.html?thread=17647327) from : _Misha is a runner and sometimes he takes it too far. Misha with an eating disorder please! Preferably Jared/Misha or Richard/Misha!_
> 
> Other prompts used here are, "making deals with demons" for , and, "Sisyphus" for 100 things ([reference prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html)).

There's a ritual and a place for everything, a time and a season for everything, a reason for everything. There's a reason for most things—or for most things that Misha does, anyway.

Misha starts training for his next charity run early because it's been a long summer—a long summer with an eye-stabbingly tedious internship where the most exercise he could ever get was running to the copy machine, to the office supply closet, around the block to Starbucks for the over-sugared coffee concoctions, of which he definitely had one or two too many. Probably more than that. He starts training early because there's no way he can let anybody down with this—it's too important.

Every morning, it's the same story. Misha gets up before Jared, wriggles away from Jared's hard chest, out from under Jared's heavy arm. He makes up two egg whites and eats them as quickly as he can. He picks his way through them, deliberately tries to avoid any savoring the taste, and he goes out for a run around the Winchester College campus. Misha takes his ipod out with him and for the most part, zones out, slips back into the music because it's a great distraction from how he needs to make his muscles burn.

They never burn. They never offer any kind of show that they're getting toned up in the way that they need to get. They never give Misha any indication that his preparation's going well, achieving any results. So he just runs harder, pushes himself to stay out longer. Sometimes, he barely has time to rush through a shower before he has to go to class. That's the only thing for it, really.

******

Misha's quiet when Jared flops into bed, doesn't even look up from his back at the way Jared jostles the mattress. But there's nothing for it when Jared reaches over, snatches his book away—Misha blinks up into the broad grin, the hazel eyes, the wild mess of hair, and for a moment, his head swims too much for him to really put it all together that he's looking at boyfriend, all smiles and looming over him, even if he's just on his side while Misha's on his back. Just a side-effect of how much larger Jared is.

How much did he eat today? Misha doesn't remember—he needs to keep better track of these things, if he expects to get anywhere good in his training—but he sighs, brushes the backs of his fingers down Jared's cheek, down his thicket of stubble.

Jared snickers as he says, "Hey, Gorgeous."

"What do _you_ want?" Misha drawls, as though the way Jared's hip presses into his own doesn't make that answer perfectly obvious.

"Nothing much," Jared says, half-shrugs, sing-songing like the Disney princess that he is inside. "Just love and happiness and world peace. And maybe a threesome with Idris Elba."

"Dare to dream, Mister Padalecki." As though Misha's fit enough to have a threesome with anybody, much less with someone hot and famous. "And that's a pretty cute way for you to say _sex_."

Jared chuckles and asks if it's on the table. Misha's not sure what to say, but he sure as Hell doesn't say _no_. He doesn't say anything, at that—doesn't give himself the chance to screw up and let slip anything that might upset Jared—he just snakes his arms around Jared's broad shoulders, pulls him down into a kiss. A kiss Misha'll have to run harder and longer for, tomorrow, because Jared's lips are soft and warm, and his mouth tastes like the mint chocolate chip ice cream that he tried to pawn off on Misha after his picked-at dinner of steamed vegetables and rice.

Because there probably aren't any lingering calories, but Misha can't be sure of it. He can't afford to take that kind of risk—not when Jared's tongue still has that too-familiar, sugary tickle to it.

Misha shudders underneath Jared's enormous hands as they ghost down his sides, over his stomach— _no, no, God, no, don't touch me there, I haven't lost enough for you to touch me there, I'm still too fat there_ —and as he feels Jared's cock grind up against his leg—straining against Jared's boxer-briefs—as he kisses Jared harder, hungry from remembering everything that he hasn't eaten in the past two weeks, tries to fumble for the lotion without letting up on Jared's lips—as he takes Jared's cock, all Misha can think is that Jared must be a master at hiding his disgust.

Misha doubles his efforts on the runs to make up for the lingering ice cream contact—one run in the morning and another after dinner. He only means to do it once, but the fact that he can manage it without falling over makes him keep it around. He can't get self-contented, after all. Doing that's just a recipe for disaster.

******

They're sharing an off-campus flat with Vicki and Genevieve, this year, which turns out to be a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Misha has extra exercise, walking several blocks to and from campus for class on top of his twice-daily runs there and back again.

On the other hand, though, Misha has to worry about buying food for the apartment, about maneuvering around all the take-out that his boyfriend and his flatmates like to fill up the fridge with, about whether or not someone eats the food that Misha buys, about whether or not three different people might call him out on how little he actually chips in to eating anything.

On the one hand, Misha's mostly off the student meal plan—he's on one of the lower-level versions of it, anyway—he doesn't have to feel guilty about skipping meals when his parents are only paying for him to get five a week anyway. He can spend the meal slots on a thing of coffee and a little tray of sushi rolls, which count as safe food—or else, he can get a bigger thing of coffee and a few snacks that he gives to Jensen, Danneel, Julian, Kim, or Gabe, whoever in his classes or on his library shift might want them. Someone always does, so someone always eats the bags of pretzels, or Gummi Bears, or miniature chocolate chip cookies that Misha buys.

That fact soothes his conscience well enough, lets him sleep at night without getting twisted over money issues. It's not wasting food or meal plan slots; it's just using them to feed someone else. Someone else who isn't on a diet and who isn't training for a charity marathon. Someone else who actually needs the food in ways that Misha doesn't, who won't have every perfectly ordered thing in their lives get tripped up by the extra calories.

On the other hand, however, living with three people means living with three extra chances to get caught, to get stopped.

But back on the first hand, Misha's fortunate in his choice of flatmates. Vicki's been his best friend since they were kids, so when he says he's fine, just a little bit stressed out from classes and keeping his grades up, she trusts him on that. Scoops him up in a hug and says that if he ever needs to talk about anything, her door's always open—unless it's closed and has a bra on the door, because then she and Gen are probably fucking and in that case, they don't want to be disturbed.

And Genevieve, bless her heart, just never seems to twig that anything's off at all. She even catches him, at some obscene hour of one Saturday morning, stumbling in from a two-hour run that, when she asks about it, he says was only half of that. She catches him, sees his chest heaving and the film of sweat lining his forehead and neck, plastering his hair to his face—and she hears him say that it's really nothing, just training for his next charity marathon, making sure he'll be in shape for it, because his sponsors won't pay up unless he finishes the race.

And all she has to say about it is, "Didn't you go out for, like, an hour-and-a-half last night or something?"

Misha shrugs, supposes that he must have, if she remembers it like that. "I didn't think it was that long, though? I thought it was more like half-an-hour, forty-five minutes or something like that. I'm in training, not trying to up and kill myself here."

She squints at him a little bit over the rim of her mug. "Well, maybe you're the one who's right. I got really whacked out on studying last night—my fucking anthro professor is fucking crazy. In a good way, mostly, but I swear to God, his assignments are a fucking trip. Seriously."

Misha forces a sympathetic smile, toweling himself off, and once he's sitting down with his own mug of coffee, he asks if Gen wants to talk about it. On the one hand, he's just glad that she's not forcing the issue, that she's smart enough to get that there's not even an issue in the first place, except for the part where the marathon's coming up and Misha can't afford not to be ready for it.

But on the other hand, he doesn't care that she's his best friend's girl—he wants to smack her and shout at her that they're fucking friends, so even the threat that he's working out to this extent should fucking worry her. At least that urge is gone by the time he's out of the shower.

******

"You've lost weight," Jared says, about six weeks into the semester—eight weeks into Misha's diet—and one week until midterms hit. Three weeks until Misha's big run.

Misha shrugs and doesn't look up from the lukewarm coffee he's pouring in a mug, sticking in the microwave. He _has_ lost weight—a good twenty-one pounds, as of this morning—but there's no reason for him to brag about it or get self-contented. Not when he's nowhere near done. One-fifty-four only sounds halfway decent in comparison to one-seventy-five. If he can just get down to one-fifty by the time he's racing for charity, then he'll consider all of this—all the extra runs, all the skipped meals, all the self-loathing notes in his journal—completely successful.

Not to mention worth the way Misha gets a pang behind his eyes—gets an empty, swimming feeling kicking around his head—for the fourth or fifth time today.

"I mean it, Meesh," Jared says, in a tone of voice that decidedly doesn't fit how great what he's saying is. "That shirt wasn't so loose on you when we moved in. You've really, really, definitely lost weight."

And the award for most tactful boyfriend goes to Jared Padalecki, who has no need to thank the Academy, because he's earned this honor all on his own.

"So what if I have? It's not a big deal." Misha slouches against the counter and folds his arms over his stomach—even if his electric orange _Bieber Fever_ t-shirt has been much snugger than it is now, there's no good reason to go and risk _exposing_ himself, showing off for Jared just how really-not-that-fit-after-all he is.

Not that Jared's likely to see things that way. He's wrinkling his nose, now, and furrowing up his brow, giving Misha a _Look_ like some kicked orphan puppy with three legs, probably while it's staring up from a gutter at the asshole who kicked it in the first place—it makes Misha's heart twist up and sink in his chest, makes the back of his neck itch with guilt. Misha worries a hand over his hip—which isn't nearly sharp enough, much less to arouse any concern, let alone the _Look_ that Jared's giving him—and he sighs, shakes his head. Bites back on the impulse to roll his eyes until they pop out of his skull.

"I'm in training for the marathon next month, Jay," he says as though this explains everything. His voice sounds hollow in his ears, rings like it's coming from far off—like maybe it's not even his. "That's kind of serious business. Never mind all the school stress, and work-study stress, and scholarship stress, and everything else stress. So, if I've lost a little bit of weight, then it's probably thanks to that. Maybe I just haven't eaten well enough—but I'm really fine, okay? I promise."

Jared _hmms_ , wrinkles his nose up that much more—slips into that head-tilting, sort of stink-face that he gets when he's thinking too hard about something simple—and eventually, he nods. "What do you wanna do for dinner tonight?"

Misha swallows a sigh of relief and says he'd kill for some sushi. The people at Japan Inn have probably learned his name, his number, and his usual order, for how often he orders from them, but it's not like it's Misha's fault that brown rice sushi and seaweed salad are on his short list of acceptable foods.

******

Knowing Jared, the issue's not settled until he says it is—but he never says it is or brings it up again, and by the time Misha's running his twenty-three miles, Misha's even down to one-forty-eight. It's all perfectly healthy and perfectly fine—and so is Misha, by simple logical extension—or so he tells himself, and his journal, and Danneel, when she asks if he's okay at the marathon's starting line. He's only lost two pounds a week—or almost two-and-a-half, if the initial loss gets counted—and he knows he's not too skinny, because some chart he found on the Internet says that he isn't.

So he's notching his belt a bit tighter, these days. So his wrists and hipbones are just a little pointier. So his t-shirts and his atrocious sweaters all hang on him and he can't get warm hardly ever, not even when he's wearing three layers and wrapped up in Jared's arms besides. So he and Jared have all but outright stopped having sex—stopped doing much of anything, outside of making out and Misha occasionally going and wrapping his lips around Jared's cock, spitting up in tissues because he can only eat so much every day and he's not going to waste any calories on his boyfriend's cum. So who cares. So what. It's all for the best, in the end—or at least, it will be, on the other side of this run.

Except that Misha doesn't stop, when he's done with the marathon, when he's raised he doesn't even know how much money to help build schools in Haiti. He knows that he can stop—that he's allowed to eat normally again and to work out less, to slip into a routine that might befit a normal person—but as Jared's put it several times before, Misha's not that normal—he can't even play normal on TV—and that's a huge part of his appeal. Translation: since Misha's a freak anyway, why can't he just go all-in and have freaky eating habits on top of everything else about him that's some kind of weird or other. It's not like anything else is going to help him. Nothing will make him any less weird, and he likes the way this feels.

He likes the way that his stomach claws at his insides when he hasn't hardly eaten. He likes the way his head swims when he stands up too quickly. He even likes the way his collarbone protrudes, the way that it strains against his skin and looks for all the world like it could collect water. When Misha eats, he runs. When he doesn't eat, he runs anyway. And he loves all of it, the rush of feeling like he's kind of in control.

On some level, he knows how sick this is, how broken, how totally fucked up. On another, Misha realizes this for what it is: he's well outside of dieting or training territory, now, and at the very least, edging toward an eating disorder. But it doesn't matter, not really—he'll stop when he gets to one-forty-five. He trusts himself to stop.

******

"Are you sure we can't have sex tonight?" Jared looks down at Misha with his sad puppy eyes on again, and Misha vaguely wants to kick him, tell him that trying to coerce sex out of him is seriously a dick move—especially when, as his boyfriend, Jared's supposed to be the one person he can trust not to pull shit like that out on him. It's not fair.

But Misha doesn't do that—he doesn't even look away from his copy of DeLillo's _White Noise_ —he can't let Jared think he's going to win this. "I have a lot of reading to catch up on," Misha says by way of explanation, hating how small, and wobbling, and dry his voice sounds. "Maybe this concept is lost on you, Jay, but if I fuck up any of my grades, then I lose my scholarship, and the school financial aid isn't nearly enough to keep my ass here."

The real reason's much simpler and more important: Misha can still find bunches of fat lining his thighs, his stomach. He's hit one-forty-five, just like he wanted, but it's not good enough—he's not thin enough—he can still pinch at his gross, disgusting body and come up with flab, no matter how many times he's considered and thought that, maybe, it might be skin instead. It can't be skin; it just can't be. That explanation's too convenient, not to mention too simple, too much against everything that Misha knows is true.

Even thinking about telling Jared that makes Misha's stomach fold up and twist itself in hot, guilty knots. Makes Misha feel like he's betraying somebody important—but he doesn't exactly feel better when Jared pouts down at him, asks if he's okay for what must be the fourth or fifth time tonight, squinting in what Misha dimly recognizes as concern. Despite the nagging feeling at the back of his neck that Jared's just faking it to make him slip up—to make him lose all the damn headway he's made in fighting this problem—Misha sighs and puts his book aside, reaches up to twine his fingers in Jared's hair.

"I'm fine, Jared," he says, in that voice that doesn't sound like his, for all it passes as his well enough, for all it's coming out of his mouth so who else's could it be, for all something in him's screaming that he's lying, that he's not fine in the slightest. "I just don't wanna do it tonight because I've been stressed out. It's been a long week, okay?"

Jared nods, swallowing thickly, with a tightness in his jaw that doesn't look like it belongs there—God, but Misha's about the fucking worst, sometimes. Sometimes like right now, for instance—sometimes like while he's probably gone and worrying his boyfriend sick over something that has nothing to do with Jared, something that's only ever been between Misha and his body. Misha sleeps curled up to Jared's chest, with Jared's arm draped around his waist, but in the morning, he gets up and once he wriggles away from Jared, he just _runs_.

He runs further, harder, faster. He runs until his head spins more than it's ever done, until his muscles burn and his veins pump acid. He runs until he has no idea where he is—some park he's never been to before, which is a good thing because he all but collapses into the first bench he finds. And even when he mewls into his cellphone at Jared, whines for Jared to please, please, please come get him, he needs a ride home, Misha itches to get started running again.

******

For a long while after Jared gets him, they're quiet. Jared doesn't even have his car's radio turned on, so the only noise is the mix of Misha's slow, heavy breathing and pavement scraping underneath the tires as Jared takes the long way home. And it's ridiculous that they're not talking—at least, it's ridiculous that Jared, of all the fucking people, has nothing to say. Jared always has something to say. Jared always has a joke, a jibe, something— _anything_. Could he please just say _anything_.

Misha has an excuse not to say anything—slouching against the door, hugging himself around the (stupid, chubby) middle, he's sure that he's going to throw up. He wants to pass out, but his nerves keep firing off at odd intervals, digging and clawing and scratching at his burning muscles, especially at his calves, setting fires all up and down his neck and spine. Something's wrong—no. Everything's wrong—and if he opens his mouth, Misha might fuck everything up—so much more than it's already fucked up.

He might puke up his guts all over Jared's front seat, for starters. He's not sure what would come up—some bile and a bit of stomach acid, maybe—but he hasn't eaten since the leftover steamed vegetables from yesterday morning. As Jared jerks the car to a stop, Misha winces, whines—his stupid, self-insistent stomach cramps up—he'd double over, probably right into the dashboard, if not for the seatbelt—and before he really knows what's what, he's got the backs of Jared's fingers trailing down his cheek, he's got Jared's lips pursed and his brow all knotted up.

"It's okay, Meesh," he whispers, brushing his thumb over Misha's cheekbone. "C'mon, it's all right. We're almost home."

Misha flinches from that statement—that soft touch—more than he's flinched from anything else since Jared picked him up. Something's building up here—he doesn't need to be a genius to guess that much—Jared's sitting on something that he hasn't said yet, and it's obvious in the way he goes white-knuckled around the steering wheel, the way he snaps at every red light that crops up along the road, the way he has nothing much to say. Seriously, the lack of speaking on Jared's part should be a sign of the coming Apocalypse—but it's right here, and it's happening.

Even when he helps Misha out of the car, drags him to the elevator instead of letting him take the stairs, curls an arm around his waist so he can make it to their place, Jared says absolutely nothing. He doesn't even find it in him to say anything when he gets Misha set up on the sofa with a glass of water and one of Genevieve's _Doctor Who_ DVDs. He stays quiet until he sighs, flicks a pamphlet over to Misha, says that he picked it up at health services and asks him to please just read it—"And actually think about what it has to say instead of just writing it off right off the bat, okay?"

Misha agrees—and then he sees the title. Purple letters emblazoned on off-yellow paper that looks like the wall of a dentist's office: _Eating Disorders Anonymous. Could you be?_ —he groans and thumps his head into the back-cushion of the sofa, winces as he curls his legs up to his chest. Exercise-induced lactic acidosis was WebMD's diagnosis, which means Misha's probably not getting in his after-dinner run, or either of his runs tomorrow, maybe not even until Monday. Which means that he'll have to eat even less to compensate for it. Which doesn't mean that he has an eating disorder because he's just making up for a loss of exercise.

None of which he says because Jared wouldn't understand it—because Misha gets the same guilty twisting, writhing in his stomach just from the thought of telling Jared anything, the same feeling of someone kicking him in the gut because he's so weak, and stupid, and surely, he can handle this on his own—he got himself into this whole ridiculous mess in the first place, after all. Why can't he be the one to get himself back out again?

But because he made a promise, Misha reads the thing, trails his eyes down the list of questions under the headline, _Can You Relate?_ —and he shakes his head, denies how much he relates to every single one of them.

"I swear to God, Jared," he says through a heavy sigh. "If I've told you once, then I've told you a million times: I'm _fine_ —I've lost weight, I admit it, but first, it was training, and now, it's mostly just stress. Running makes me less stressed. I overdid it today, but that's not typical of my usual habits, okay?"

"Forgive me for being worried about you when you're looking and acting kind of fucking sick, _boyfriend_." Jared drawls out boyfriend like a verbal smack to the face, and if Misha thought his legs would cooperate, he'd probably try to kick the jack-ass for even trying to pull out that card right now. That's so low that Misha can't say anything to it in response. He just huffs and nuzzles further into the cushion.

Jared sighs, and pushed his hair back off his face with both hands. "Okay, maybe that went too far," he says, "but you really don't look okay, and you're not acting okay, and… I just want you to be okay, Misha? Is really that so bad?"

Misha gives him a long look, thinking, _Yes, because sooner or later, you'll realize that I don't deserve it. Sooner or later, you'll wake up and realize what a disgusting pig you've been sleeping with—I don't even know how far I ran today, but ruining it so I can't run until probably Tuesday? How is that not indicative of someone who doesn't deserve you?_

But all he manages to say is, "It's not bad. I never said it was. Don't put words in my mouth, please."

"Well, you're kind of seriously acting like it's bad, so excuse me if I got a little bit confused."

Misha shrugs, reaches down to the coffee-table for his water and takes a long drink out of it. "It's not bad, Jared—it's just understandable. And all I am is stressed out, maybe a little bit snippy because of it. I promise you I'm fine."

******

It's Thursday night when Misha decides he's ready—there's still too much fat on his body, but he's down another notch on his belt. He weighs in at one-forty-three after a shower. He hasn't eaten anything since Monday evening, and the head-swimming feeling's gone, replaced by a warm, blissful contentment—and he's ready, he knows he's ready, to have sex with Jared again.

Penetrative, missionary position, he'll even let Jared leave the lights on—Misha's finally thin enough for that privilege.

He finds Jared in the bedroom already, reading a book in his t-shirt and boxer-briefs—Misha sneaks the door closed behind him, creeps across the floor, and has to restrain himself as he flops into a boneless mess next to Jared. He has to hold back on that smile because he barely upsets their mattress—Jared doesn't even seem to notice him until Misha asks how _Frankenstein_ is going, and from there, they end up kissing pretty quickly, almost immediately.

Misha makes sure of that—he doesn't want to talk, or risk any words upsetting anything about this, about how ready he is for it. He coaxes Jared around, so all those muscles bear down on him, until he gets to feel so small—so fragile, so unlike how he always has to feel—underneath Jared's broad chest, biting and sucking on his lower lip, trying to suck the air out of Jared's lungs. He keeps his arms around Jared's shoulders, hooks one leg up around Jared's waist and digs his heel into the back of Jared's thigh.

Everything happens so quickly, but it feels like it's taking forever—Misha's head slips out of the warmth and into the swimming feeling, and he could swear for a moment that he's watching from outside himself, watching as Jared's hands clench around his thighs, jerk him around so Jared's sitting up with Misha in his lap—Misha sticks the landing and grinds down against Jared's hips, his groin. Only lets go of Jared—only stops kissing him—to let Jared nudge his t-shirt and his sweater up, to yank them off—Jared gasps, and when Misha goes to kiss him again, he doesn't kiss back. He passively takes it, until he nudges Misha away.

"Meesh—Misha," he says, sighs, wraps a hand around Misha's wrist, clenches his fingers, and tugs. " _Misha_. Do me a favor—please, just this one thing okay, just… please, _please_ look at yourself?"

Misha has no idea what Jared thinks he's on about, but he sighs. He stares down at his lap, at his thighs next to Jared's, and Misha wonders when his legs got so diminished, where all the fat that he only _just saw_ on them went. He stares at his chest and wonders where the shadows of his ribs came from, when they got to strain against his skin as much as they're doing now—they weren't like that in the bathroom mirror, they really weren't, he knows they weren't like that. He looks back up at Jared, at the way his eyes are watering—and as Misha blinks at him, he realizes that his own eyes are stinging, too. That he's got tears welling up in them.

Misha takes a deep breath and it comes out in a shudder. Something hot shocks down his spine, twists around in the pit of his stomach—the back of his neck flushes—hotter than that shock, and sick like a wave of nausea—and he whispers, "Jared, I… I think I need help. I don't think I'm fine."

******

Misha doesn't go for his run on Friday morning but stays curled up in Jared's arms until Jared's alarm goes off. He takes his time picking over the eggs that Jared scrambles up, with the yolks in them and everything, and he doesn't even walk to campus, but lets Jared drive him. When they park, it's a short walk from the parking lot over to Kimball, the building that has student health services in it. He clings to Jared's hand, laces up their fingers and squeezes—at least Jared doesn't have a compunction about skipping class for this. He thinks it's important, and definitely more important than his class.

When they get to health services, Misha almost chickens out, almost bolts for the library instead, because his next shift might not be for six hours, but waiting there's bound to be better than being here. Jared doesn't let him, though, and the receptionist gives him a form to fill out, so whichever counselor he ends up with knows what they're getting in this walk-in appointment. Misha only doesn't rush through it because Jared's sitting there with him, because he can lean against Jared's side as he scribbles on the sheet of paper, because even if it makes him feel sick to write down, _I think I might have an eating disorder_ , it's probably for the best that he takes his time with this thing.

"I'm so sorry for this," he says softly, so the three other visitors can't hear him, looking up from the form at Jared. "I'm sorry for this… I'm sorry for everything."

Jared sighs and curls his fingers around Misha's wrist, leans over to kiss him, gently. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he says. "I love you, Misha. I just want you to be well."

Misha blinks at him, blushes bright pink, tries to come up with a smile. Somehow, he'd planned on their first _I love you_ being a little less… _this_. But he guesses this one's more than good enough for him.


End file.
